


Spark

by LFB72, Pelydryn



Series: Incandescent [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, Art, Coming of Age, Druids, Gen, Inspired by Art, Kid Fic, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Arthur/Merlin - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Prologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 08:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10872594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFB72/pseuds/LFB72, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pelydryn/pseuds/Pelydryn
Summary: When eight-year old Merlin first wandered off to explore the Dead Forest, he hoped for adventure: perhaps he'd find a wildcat or, at the very least, a hedgehog. What he found instead was a great and terrible destiny. Part One of the Incandescent Series.Written for the Merlin Reverse Bang Round 1.





	Spark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rawks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rawks/gifts), [enkiduu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkiduu/gifts), [LFB72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFB72/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
> 
>  **Artist's Notes:** This is my first time participating in the Merlin reverse. It has been lovely to work with my writer, Pelydryn, and I know she has put a lot of effort, time and love into this story. 
> 
> It's hard to believe she can take my original prompt and picture and create this whole new world and weave it into this wonderful story.
> 
> Many thanks to the fest organisers: Narlth and Side_steppings for doing a fantastic job and to my art beta DYlogger for putting up with last moment requests despite being busy herself and of course to everyone at Merlin Chatzy for being so supportive.
> 
>  **Author's Notes:** My original story grew too long to finish in time for posting. Instead, I present to you a prologue. It can stand alone, but also adds depth to the events that occur in the main tale, which should be completed this summer.
> 
> Many thanks to the mods, Narlth and Side_steppings, for hosting this fest. Thank you to my artist, LFB72. She is amazing! She provided not only beautiful art (and last minute dividers!), but also ideas and support. Thank you also to my beta, Rawks, who is the best fandom friend a girl could want; and to Enkiduu, who is the sweetest, most wonderful cheerleader ever. I am so lucky to know all of you! Also, thank you to the chatzy crew, who listened to me moan and panic and doubt myself for months. 
> 
> **Link to artwork:** http://archiveofourown.org/works/10837086  
> 

 

The day that Merlin found the druids was the most thrilling in his life. He had been eight years old and allowed to go exploring in the Dead Forest for the first time all by himself. “Allowed” might have been an exaggeration. His mum had been working in their small garden, and Merlin had been complaining about it. The day was fearfully hot, like all their days, and it had made him fractious. He wanted to play with the other boys in the village pond, to cool off, but Mum wouldn't let him swim without her to “make sure he wasn't a stupid idiot who drowned himself at the first opportunity”—and she was too busy to go that day.

 

He stomped his foot. Hard. “It's not like those plants are going to die if you leave them for a couple hours!”

 

Mum sent him that look, the one that let him knew he was one step away from being in Serious Trouble. “Do you _want_ to starve this winter? Remember the last one, how we were so hungry you cried yourself to sleep every night? Is that what you want?”

 

Merlin's cheeks burned with the memory of what a baby he had been then. His whining had made his mum even more sad than she already had been. He bowed his head and said, “No, Mum.” Then he ran to give her a hug, because that always seemed to cheer her up. She smiled at him, saying, “Go play, sweet. You can help me this evening when it's not so hot.”

 

Their garden was on the edge of a brown, weed-covered field that ran up to the edge of the Dead Forest. A rusted-out car had been abandoned closer to the tree line, and Merlin had never dared to pass it before. But today was different. Today he was brave. He ran through the ragged plants, past the car, and made for the trees. Very few had any foliage left; the forest was mostly a tangle of dead branches and dried-out underbrush. He stopped at the edge to look back as his mum, and she waved at him. He took that as permission to press on, seeking shelter from the sun, hoping to find substantial shade somewhere in that prickly mess.

 

It was cooler there, in the forest, although shade was not easy to find since most of the leaves were dead. He felt older than he had the last time he had come this far, older and braver. He was not going to cry for a little thing like hunger, and he was not going to be afraid of a few poky plants. He walked and walked, licking at the blood that oozed out of a scratch a thorn had torn into his skin. His sneakers, already not in the best of shape, were repeatedly pierced by the sharp points of tackweed fruit, which he had to constantly remove lest they puncture the skin of his foot.

 

The afternoon was stiflingly hot and sweat ran off his face. He'd wiped it with his sleeve so much that the cloth was soaked and his face was raw from the rubbing. He finally gave up and let it drip. But still he pressed on, looking for adventure. Maybe he'd find a wildcat. Or at the very least a hedgehog. Even a bunny would be better than nothing.

 

The only living creatures he found, though, were swarms of tiny insects (that would land on his skin and stick to his sweat) and the shiny black crows that perched in the dead trees and shrieked at him. He was intimidated by them: they seemed to be actively trying to scare him away. But Merlin was being brave today, and no bundle of feathers was going to bother him, no matter how mean said bundle of feathers sounded. Besides, he had magic to protect himself with.

 

Right as he thought that, a tree branch cracked and plummeted to the ground. There was the tremendous noise of angry cawing, the flapping of dozens of wings, and the splintering of dry underbrush as the heavy branch fell on it. Oops. He hadn't meant to do that. But still, he thought of it as a warning salvo to the forest— _leave me alone, or else._

 

He continued a short way further before noticing the crows had finally flown away. The twittering of a few other birds cheered him: the chirp of a robin, the cooing of a dove. Heartened, he decided to press on a few minutes longer, only stopping when he discovered the druid.

 

When he first saw the man, Merlin thought him a dead tree. He was clothed in brown robes and sat on a fallen trunk, completely still. Merlin might have walked right past him, except the man called out, “Greetings, Merlin.”

 

That stopped Merlin in his tracks. His heart pounded, but when he looked at the wrinkled face of the man, Merlin could instinctively tell that he meant no harm. His muscles relaxed and his heart rate eased, but there were still mysteries to uncover.

 

“Who are you? And how do you know my name?” Merlin was pleased that his voice hardly trembled at all. Look at how easy it was to be brave!

 

The man stood, his greying hair flashing in the sunlight. “I am Iseldir. Do you truly question how I know your name?”

 

“Magic,” Merlin answered. Now that he looked, he could see the magic racing along this man's skin like wildfire over a parched field.

 

“Yes, that is correct,” Iseldir said, eyes twinkling. “Would you like to see more of it?”

 

That was a silly question. _Of course_ Merlin wanted to see more! Mum hardly ever let him use magic at home. She was always afraid he'd get caught. And he'd never met anyone else who had any. He nodded eagerly, too excited to speak.

 

“Then come back tomorrow, lad, and bring your mother. I will take you to our camp. There are many children there who would love to share their magic with you.”

 

Merlin raced home, feeling as though his feet floated over the thorns and prickles. He noticed neither thirst nor heat and paid no attention to insects or crows. He surprised himself by making it back in about a quarter-hour, despite having traveled into the forest for much longer. _Magic_ , he thought, and giggled like a delighted maniac.

 

 

It was easier than Merlin expected to get his mum to go with him into the forest. He thought she'd complain about the splinters and thorns, but when he said he loved her and wanted to go exploring with her, then flashed his most adorable smile (he'd learned which smile got results ages ago), she had agreed right away.

 

It did not take long to arrive at the clearing where he had met Iseldir. The man was waiting for them as if he had known the exact moment they would arrive. Merlin swore it was magic that guided his feet so quickly this time, and maybe it was. Iseldir greeted Merlin's mum respectfully, and she was not nearly as surprised as Merlin thought she would be. The three of them walked a short distance together to arrive at Iseldir’s camp.

 

The camp was in a large clearing amongst the dead trees. But not all the trees were dead: Merlin’s eyes immediately jumped to a wide swath of green vegetation on the far side of the open space. In the Dead Forest there were still a few stubborn springs that hadn’t dried up, and the druid settlement was situated next to one. The camp itself consisted of a strange assortment of tents and wooden buildings that had been strapped together with various materials. Merlin didn't look too closely, though, because his attention was drawn to the children running around the edge of the camp.

 

He looked questioningly at his mum. She was still talking to Iseldir, but nodded for him to go ahead. So he ran after the other kids as they climbed over logs, shimmied up trees, and made as much noise as was physically possible. There was a wild call for battle, and the children pelted each other with anything they could throw: bits of bark, gravel, dried up leaves. . . . It seemed impossible that so much could be flung into the air at once. That was when Merlin saw one girl's eyes glowing gold. She was using magic!

 

He quickly realised that _all_ of the kids were using magic to fling things at each other. This was Merlin's newest, most-favoritest game ever. He pulled at the power that simmered inside of him, and a whirlwind of leaves flew off a tree and careened for the largest group of combatants. Merlin knew it was going to be a fantastic hit—until the leaves suddenly scattered in other directions. Just then a big dollop of mud smacked him on the side of the head.

 

The girl he had first seen doing magic rushed over to him. She had brown hair and eyes and the sweetest smile. Merlin liked her instantly. She pulled out a cloth from one of her pockets and used it to clean the mud off Merlin's face and hair.

 

“I'm Freya,” she said, in between wipes. “Why didn't you use a shield?”

 

Merlin frowned. “A shield?”

 

She nodded and wiped at his ear. “A magical shield? To keep from being hit?”

 

He didn't want to admit that he didn't know how to make a shield, but admitting it was better than letting Freya think he knew how and was just too stupid to do it. “I’ve never made a shield before.”

 

He thought a moment, then tacked on, “I'm Merlin. Do you think you could show me how to make a shield?”

 

Freya smiled so brightly that Merlin thought his heart would melt from the intensity of it.

 

“I would love to!” she said. And immediately did.

 

From that moment on, Merlin had a friend. His mum had never let him get close to the kids in the village, afraid that he would be careless with his magic and give himself away. But here, in what he later found out was a secret druid camp, Merlin could be himself completely. Freya was not his only friend, but she was his first, and he loved her with an intensity he had never felt for anyone before. (His mum didn't count. Of course Merlin loved her best, but he kind of had to, since she was his mum. That's what you did with your mum.)

 

Merlin wasn't sure what his mother and Iseldir talked about while he was playing, but after that day, Merlin was always a welcome guest in their camp. His mum was much happier with him there, where he could practise his magic without fear of discovery from over-meddlesome villagers. Every night Merlin would head back home, happy in the knowledge that he would be free to visit his friends again the next day. That was the happiest summer of his life.

  

Although the seasons changed, the weather remained nearly the same, as it had ever since the curse had landed upon Albion. Fall was heralded by the harvest of the few plants that farmers could manage to grow. It was never enough, and the people would have long since starved if they hadn't been able to trade for food overseas.

 

The sun shone down at a lower angle during the fall, making its light slightly more tolerable. The air was still hot and dry, but the wind blew, cooling Merlin off and allowing him to sleep better at night. A few of the insects were less active, and occasionally rainless clouds would drift over, providing some relief from the sun.

 

Nearly every day Merlin raced to the druid village. He had learned it was shielded with powerful magic to remain undetectable to outsiders, but never questioned how he himself had found it. Freya would be waiting for him, along with several of the other children. They played all day or listened to the elders teach them about magic. They helped with the village work, sang with the people, and worshipped the White Goddess with gladness in their hearts.

 

Though the days were still unbearably warm, they grew shorter as fall progressed. It became easier and easier to stay outside after dark, to enjoy the respite from the sun's harsh glare. Merlin and Freya would often steal away together at twilight, when the sunset had faded from orange to turquoise to violet and the evening star might shine brilliantly over the crescent moon. Other days, a full moon would rise in the east, orange as a pumpkin, or blood-red if smoke from wildfires lay heavy upon the forest.

 

This particular evening was smoky. While the druids kept their section of the forest safe from fire with magic, the rest of the Dead Forest, and indeed, all of drought-stricken Albion, was prone to disastrous conflagrations. When the moon rose, it was egg-shaped and orange-red, sluggishly lifting its way into the sky. Merlin and Freya had run off together to sit by the banks of a pond they had found while exploring one day. The pond might have been a lake at one point, but had shrunk into a bog that consisted mostly of slimy green algae and puddles of mud.

 

Merlin knew his mum would be mad if he didn't get home soon, but he was having such fun, laughing with Freya, watching the stars come out one by one. Insects buzzed all around, but Merlin was able to repel them with a small push of magic. It was a perfect night.

 

Once the sky had turned completely black, Freya said, “I need to get home soon. I have to take my potion before midnight, or Iseldir will worry.” She sounded doubtful, though. Freya's parents had been killed in the Purge, so she was looked after by the druids collectively. But they were often busy and lost track of her. Merlin was occasionally envious of Freya's freedom, but was glad that he had a mum who expected him home each and every night.

 

Merlin and Freya lay side-by-side in the dirt, looking up to the Milky Way, hoping to spot a shooting star. Despite the lingering smoke, the stars still shone, tiny sparks of light fighting their way through the murk to wink at them. Merlin was surprisingly comfy. It was so pleasant lying there. He yawned and felt himself relax towards the welcoming arms of sleep.

 

Beside him Freya yawned too, but said again, very sleepily, “I have to go, Merlin.” He just muttered, “One more minute, Frey. Let's just stay one . . . more . . . minute. . . .” She never responded, just let out a soft little breath. Merlin allowed himself to close his eyes, only for a moment. . . . And then he fell asleep.

 

  

 

Merlin woke suddenly, jerking himself from a wild, terrifying dream. Sweat covered his skin and his muscles felt weak, almost paralyzed. He gasped for air, panting so loudly he was certain the entire forest could hear him.

 

Which was strange. It hadn't been that quiet earlier, back when the insects had been buzzing, the frogs croaking, the owls hooting. . . . Now it was completely still. Maybe all the animals had fallen asleep like Merlin?

 

Sleep? Oh no! He'd fallen asleep. His mum was going to kill him. And Freya— Where was Freya? By the light of the moon, Merlin could see she was not where she had been lying. Had she gone back to the camp and left him sleeping alone? Would she do that?

 

Feeling hurt, Merlin wandered around, looking for any sign of his friend. He willed a blue ball of light into existence, but still couldn't see Freya anywhere. He had resigned himself to finding his way back to the camp alone when a low growling noise caused all the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

 

He spun around urgently, searching for the source of the noise. He could see nothing out of the ordinary. . . . Wait. Was that something moving in the shadow of that bush?

 

He blinked and looked again, but couldn't tell. Sweat dripped off his face and his heart pounded so loudly, he was afraid it would be audible to whatever was out there. He mentally kicked himself then, since he realised his magic light already shouted, “Here I am. Come and get me!”

 

He was looking in the wrong direction when the creature finally pounced. There was a whoosh of air, an angry snarl, then the burning pain of sharp things scraping down his back. He fell to the ground, a heavy weight upon his body. Magic welled up inside him, then pulsed out in a golden flash, tossing the creature away.

 

Merlin regained his feet, despite the excruciating pain in his back. His magic light had disappeared in the attack, but the moon was bright enough for him to see the creature. It was black and furry, a more ferocious version of the wildcat Merlin had hoped to see that day he had met the druids. But unlike any mundane wildcat, this creature had giant, black, bat-like wings.

 

Blood ran down his back and he was getting light-headed. The creature—what _was_ that thing?—stalked towards him, wings held taut and upright. Its eyes glinted in the moonlight and its mouth was a cruel smile that revealed an abundance of pointy teeth.

 

Merlin wasn't sure what to do. Should he run for it? Fight it off with magic? See if he could make a magical shield strong enough to keep the creature away?

 

 

In the end his planning was for naught. The creature pounced without warning, sinking its claws into Merlin's torso and biting into his shoulder, knocking him down again. Instinct took over and magic blazed out of him, flinging the creature against a tree so fiercely that the trunk cracked upon impact. The dark figure slid to the earth and lay still.

 

Merlin was nearly insane with terror and pain. He couldn't think straight. Blood was flowing out of his body in many places and he knew he was going to die if he didn't do something fast. The druids had tried to teach him healing spells, but he hadn't been very interested, and now he couldn't remember them. If he survived this, he swore he would study those spells as if his life depended on it—which it clearly did.

 

With his last remaining conscious thoughts Merlin prayed to the Goddess for help. Then he let his magic loose. There was some dulling of the pain and he could feel the wounds knitting together. Not a lot, but hopefully it would be enough to stay alive till he could get help.

 

He pulled himself to standing. Was the creature still alive? Was it going to wake up and come for him? He panted from the exertion of getting up. Which way was home? It was so hard to think clearly.

 

The creature under the tree made a sudden noise, a growl that was more like a moan. Merlin panicked. He had to get away _right_ _now_. He begged his magic for help as he bolted into the forest, paying no attention to the way he was going.

 

Merlin ran and ran, long past his physical endurance, moving solely by the grace and direction of the few drops of magic he could dredge up. Every time he slowed, he thought he heard the creature’s growl and bolted again. Vegetation whipped at him, thorns tore at his clothing, roots reached out to trip him and sprain his ankles. Still he ran on, not stopping till morning twilight brightened the eastern sky.

 

Merlin had no idea where he was. Tears poured from his eyes. The magic was wearing out, and he was going to collapse soon, maybe never get up. A jut of rock rose over the surrounding landscape. He ran towards it, hoping it might provide some shade before the sun’s light grew too strong. But when he made it to the bottom, he found a crack in the rock that stretched back into the darkness. Cool air flowed out of it. Merlin followed the draft into the welcome darkness of a cave, then dropped to the ground in relief. With the last of his magic he nudged a small boulder over to block the entrance from any chasing monsters, then let himself close his eyes and rest.

 

The gouges on his body burned too much to allow sleep and were not kind enough to help him pass out. Merlin lay still instead, mind awhirl with pain and fear and unanswered questions. At one point he pondered the stupidity of shutting himself alone and injured in a cave where no one could find him, but he was too exhausted to worry about it. Besides, he had let his magic loose to guide him, and this was where he ended up. He would trust that his magic knew what it was doing.

 

The longer he lay in that dark space, the better he felt. He thought the opposite would happen, that he would feel worse and worse until he slid into an inevitable death. But the pain of his wounds lessened and his thoughts came more easily. After a long while he managed to open his eyes. The air around him was a swirling mass of golden sparkles that slowly drifted towards him and disappeared into his skin. The light of the sparkles glinted off the cave walls in strange angles, shining through crystalline formations that emerged from nearly every visible surface.

 

The pool of magic inside his body was replenishing faster than he had imagined possible. What was this place? He felt well enough to stand and assess his condition. Although his hoodie was ripped nearly to shreds and was soaked with blood, the skin underneath was whole again, albeit still tender and bloodstained. He touched his shoulder where the creature had bit him, but there were no teeth marks, no pain, only golden sparkles dancing over the skin where the injuries had been. The sparkles ran up his fingers where he touched them, then sank beneath his skin. The magic inside his body responded with eager joy, growing stronger than he could ever recall it being.

 

Merlin stared in wonder at the golden sparkles floating towards him through the air. They appeared to emanate from the cave’s walls, which were speckled with large crystalline protuberances jutting out in all directions. The crystals glowed the same unearthly blue color as the magical light he so often summoned, but the abundance of them, mixed in with the ever-swirling sparkles, made the light that Merlin could summon seem like a the pinpoint of a firefly next to a bonfire.

 

A large crystal nearby pulsed with the blue light. It was entrancing. He was compelled to approach it, to peer in and try to understand where such beauty came from. The crystal was cloudy, but as he looked the murk cleared, and then—

 

Visions poured into his mind, a terrifying bombardment of images and feelings, of things he had seen and things impossible.

 

—a man with a shaggy beard, kissing his mum before walking away—

 

—Freya, screaming, transforming into a winged monster—

 

—a woman in a white cape over a grey dress, a dove perched on her hand—

 

—flames roaring, not eating up dead forest but living human flesh—

 

—a golden king, shining in a way that the sun had long since forgotten, shining with a light that illuminated but did not burn—

 

There were so many faces that flashed through his mind, faces in agony, grief, despair. . . . Merlin's heart was breaking and he had no clue as to _why_. The visions would not stop—

 

—his mother, in pain, bleeding, crows perched upon her torso, pecking at the blood—

 

—a snake of a man sneering at him—

 

And then one image lingered in his mind. It was him, he knew, but grown up. He looked at himself from the outside, but at the same time could feel the swirl of emotions he was experiencing. Vision-Merlin stood in a circular fighting ring, a rope separating him from a large audience. His hands sparked with magical fire that he longed to hurl, anger and fear driving him towards desperation. On the floor in front of him lay his opponent, a young man in a druid robe, triskele clearly marked on the back. All around him voices yelled and taunted. “Kill him! Kill him!” they cried. The emotions Merlin felt coming from his vision-self horrified him with their intensity and darkness.

 

In all that chaos there was one area of stillness: a golden-haired man who stood in the front row, watching with an expression of concern. He didn't shout like the others, and yet Merlin could tell he was more heavily invested in the outcome of this match than anyone else. Merlin could feel his strength and support and knew that, whatever he might do, he didn't want to let that golden-haired man down. . . .

 

The visions quickened again, a wild whirl impossible to understand—

 

—a woman in a grey dress and black cloak, walking through a flock of crows—

 

—sorcerers attacking, fighting, killing, dying—

 

—a golden-haired lady, pierced with bullets, her body a huddle on the floor—an explosion ripping through flesh—a kingdom in mourning—Merlin himself, trapped and helpless, unable even to scream for help—

 

Merlin burst awake. He looked around, expecting to see golden sparks and incandescent blue crystals, but all he saw was the plain beige canvas of the interior of one of the druid tents. He sat up, feeling disoriented but energetic. That was some dream he had had. . . . It was fading away even as he remembered it. Something about Freya? And a monster?

 

No one was in the tent, so he walked out the opening flap to find people. He had slept in the druid camp before, but it was infrequent and he couldn't remember why he had stayed this time. Several hanging charms clanked together when he pushed through the flap, and the sound cut through the air harshly. When he stepped outside, all eyes turned to look at him. Children stopped their games, the grown-ups paused in their work, the elderly sitting in chairs under the shade trees near the spring hushed their gossip and stared.

 

Merlin froze, not understanding what was going on. Then he heard the patter of feet running on the hard earth, and his mother was there in front of him, hugging him in front of everybody.

 

“Mum!” he squawked. Then, more quietly, so no one else could hear, asked, “What's going on? What are you doing here?”

 

She just clung to him all the harder, then pulled him back into the tent. He went willingly, eager to escape the searching gazes of the druids. They sat down on the bed, his mum still clinging to him. Iseldir came in shortly thereafter.

 

Merlin asked again, “What's going on?” His mum seemed too occupied pressing her face into his shoulder to answer.

 

“Do you not remember?” Iseldir asked.

 

Merlin shook his head. “I had some crazy dreams. That's all.” And yet—he knew they were more than dreams.

 

He continued, “There was a monster—and Freya. I couldn't find Freya.” Looking up at his mother, he saw her eyes filled with tears. And Merlin knew something horrible had happened. His own eyes prickled with tears. “Where's Freya?!”

 

Iseldir studied him carefully, but what he was looking for Merlin couldn't fathom. Instead he grew more and more anxious the longer the silence stretched. Finally Iseldir spoke.

 

“There was a monster by the pond that night, yes. It—killed Freya. Then tried to kill you. You must have fought it off with magic, for we found its body dead where it had been flung into a tree.”

 

Iseldir spoke all this with a heavy voice, showing more emotion than Merlin had ever witnessed before. By now the tears were silently pouring out of Merlin's own eyes. He couldn't bear listening anymore and threw himself into his mother's lap. But Iseldir hadn't quite finished.

 

“You ran away and must have gotten lost. We didn't find you till the next day, sitting next to a tree trunk. You were awake, but would not answer us, did not even seem to see us. We brought you here where you fell asleep and didn't wake for two days.”

 

Merlin couldn't stop crying long enough to protest, to say he felt great and there was no way that he had been asleep for so long.

 

“I am grateful that you were not injured. A bastet is a deadly creature.”

 

From his safe place cuddled in his mother's lap, it was easier for Merlin to float into the memories of his dream that wasn't actually a dream. He remembered great pain, on his back, his stomach, his shoulder . . . but when he touched at those places with his hand, there were no wounds. 

 

His memory of events could clearly not be trusted.

 

The druids held a remembrance ceremony for Freya at the pond where she had been killed. Her body was completely wrapped in grey cloth so that Merlin couldn't see it. Mum said it was too ripped up to look at, but he would have liked to have seen it anyway, to help him believe it was real, that his best friend was dead and not just on an extended trip into the forest. But he was not allowed.

 

Freya's body was carefully placed on a raft, then pushed out from the shore of the tiny, muddy pond. Some stiff reeds impeded the progress of the tiny craft, but someone called out “ _astyre_ ,” and the boat propelled itself through the water. Then the voice said, “ _Wæcce on sæbát bælfýr mæst_.” A spark of light arced towards the raft. When it hit, the bundle of cloth wrapped round Freya burst into flames. Merlin felt like all his happiness had gone up in flames with her. He turned to his mother, buried his face in her chest, and let the tears pour out. She clutched him tightly to her body and let him cry.

 

Merlin never again felt so happy and carefree as he had in those days with Freya. Her death left an ache in his heart that never quite went away. After that time, his daily activities changed as well. The druids were suddenly intent on teaching him as much as they possibly could about magic. Over and over he was told, “You must learn to control your strength. You must learn control!”

 

His dreams were troubled as well. He had dreams about Freya and the monster who had killed her, but sometimes when he came face to face with the monster, the face that he saw was his own. He would wake up screaming, “I'm not a monster!” His mum would come to settle him, whispering that magic didn't make him a monster, it made him special. He couldn't tell her about that dream, nor about the one where Freya herself was the monster.

 

It wasn't until his coming of age ceremony that Merlin was confronted with the truth.

 

 

 

 Merlin grew up half-wild, roaming the Dead Forest with the other druid children. But he was also taught many things: spells and enchantments, ways to keep his magic under control, how to honour the Goddess, the traditions of the druids. One of these traditions was a coming of age ceremony for all druid children, boys and girls alike. For an entire year before his coming of age, Merlin underwent intense training in the ways of the Goddess. He performed many purification rituals and magic rites in the weeks leading up to his seventeenth birthday, when he would officially become an adult.

 

Three nights before his birthday, he would be led deep into the woods and left alone. He would be expected to build a bonfire and keep it burning for three days and three nights while making constant prayer to the Goddess, stopping neither for food nor water nor rest.

 

If the Goddess deemed him worthy, she might choose to visit him. The druids said her manifestations were rare, reserved only for the most pure of heart. It was difficult for Merlin to tell if she ever truly appeared, as no one ever spoke about their ceremonies.

 

Merlin was thrilled to have the opportunity to undergo the coming of age tradition, even though he wasn't truly a druid, at least not by birth. But he was as excited as if he'd been waiting for it his whole life. Iseldir himself led him into the forest, farther than Merlin had ever gone before. He spoke along the way of the importance of purity of heart: to see the Goddess, you had to long for her wisdom and desire to follow her ways. It was of the utmost importance to remain attentive throughout the trial.

 

They arrived in a dry, half-dead clearing. It might have been beautiful once, before the droughts. Merlin could envision it with a spring, surrounded by grasses, ferns, and wildflowers. But now it was all thorny weeds and dead bushes.

 

Iseldir pulled out his pack and extracted a glass vial filled with an inky black liquid and a wooden paintbrush topped with course hairs. “Now, the runes.”

 

Merlin stripped off his shirt, which had been long-sleeved to protect him from sun, insects, and prickly plants. He felt incredibly exposed and vulnerable without it. Iseldir stood in front of him, dipped the brush into the vial, then began painting on his chest. It tickled, but Merlin felt the gravity of the moment and refused to fidget.

 

As Iseldir worked, he named the runes he painted: “Earth. Air. Water. Fire. I place them on you in balance, none greater than any other. This is the balance we strive for. Fire—the blaze of the sun, the destruction of the wildfires, the tragedy of the pyre—has overpowered the other elements. With the help of the Goddess, we work to correct this imbalance, to bring peace and prosperity to Albion, to fulfill the prophecies of a golden age for all.

 

"Next comes the rune for purity. Only those who are truly pure of heart will be blessed with the presence of the Goddess. . . .

 

“And last comes the triskele, a triple spiral, the symbol of the Goddess. The legs must rotate clockwise, the direction of the sun. To go widdershins is to go against her ways, to betray all that we stand for.”

 

Iseldir finished and packed his materials. He then placed both hands upon Merlin's head, pressing firmly. “May the Goddess find you worthy.” He left the clearing without looking back. Merlin could hear the crunching sound of Iseldir stepping on dead, dried-out vegetation recede into the distance.

 

As he listened, he became aware of the other sounds of the forest, the hum of insects, the cawing of crows. Despite the evidence of life around him, he felt more alone and exposed than he ever had before. He took a deep breath. Better get on with his task and not allow himself to indulge in anxiety.

 

Merlin gathered up many armfuls of dead wood for the fire. Once lit, the flames radiated intense heat. The forest was usually cooler than Ealdor, where buildings trapped the heat, but it was still a hot, miserable place. The fire exacerbated this. Sweat poured off of him. He sat by the fire and prayed to the Goddess for purity, for balance, for direction. Occasionally he stood and walked round the fire, always clockwise, never widdershins. Praying, meditating, never ceasing, all through the day, all through the long night.

 

By the next morning, he no longer perspired. He had become so dehydrated and overheated that there was no moisture left to be expelled. But he would not cease. At the end of the second day he knew that he would have died from heat stroke, had he not had magic to sustain him.

 

He neither slept nor drank nor ate. The only task he allowed himself was that of feeding the flames of the bonfire, so that they remained painfully hot. Aside from that, there was only prayer.

 

At dawn on the third day Merlin felt a lightness in his heart, a fluttering of hope that the Goddess might appear to him at last and that this trial might soon be over. His magic helped to sustain him, but even so, every second he spent next to that fire was an exquisite agony.

 

There was no part of him that did not ache. His skin stung, his lips were cracked and bleeding, his eyes felt dry and grimy. His hands were black with soot and there were multiple burns on his skin from where hot cinders had landed.

 

But nothing happened.

 

When the sun set on the third day, he began to sob, although he was too dehydrated to produce any tears. He had struggled and suffered much, endeavoring to stay awake till that third day, and it was all for naught.

 

He wasn't sure how long he remained sobbing by the fire, feeling as if death would be preferable to the crushing weight of his disappointment. It was long past time to return to the camp, but he stayed, watching the fire, despairing that he had failed, that he was unworthy.

 

As he stared into the dancing flames, he began to see images taking shape. He struggled to see them clearly. If only he could get closer to the fire. . . . The closer he went, the clearer the vision became. It pulled at his heart with an intensity that would not be denied. Entrusting himself to the Goddess and to the magic she had given him, he stepped straight into the fire.

 

The visions caught hold of him at once. He was young again, Freya running at his side. Her gentle smile lit up the forest. He saw them playing, laughing, teasing. Then the scene darkened. Merlin saw the two of them lying by the pond as they had the night Freya died. They lay side by side, chattering and giggling. He saw himself convince Freya to stay just a little longer, watched the two of them fall asleep. . . .

 

Merlin expected the vision to stop then, but it did not allow him such grace. Instead he watched as the moon shifted in the sky and Freya woke up with a start. The moonlight revealed the terror on her face. She ran to the dead trees, plunging into them without regard for injury, as if desperate to find her way home. But she had not gone far when she screamed and—

 

—she transformed. There was no longer a human girl fleeing into the forest. Her body twisted and contorted, enlarged and changed colour. Where Freya had stood, there loomed a black creature, a panther with bat wings, an abomination.

 

Merlin felt the horror inside his body threaten to bubble over and boil him alive. Freya—his dear, precious Freya—had been that monster. _And he had killed her._

 

The pain of this realization tore through him like a fire storm. He fell to the ground, still within the flames, burning, burning, his whole life burning down around him. There could be no tears, only the agony of his deed, the knowledge that he had killed his best friend, that he had already failed in every way. No wonder the Goddess had not deigned to visit him. He was lower than the earthworms squirming through the dirt: at least they didn't go around killing their friends.

 

Eventually he became aware of no longer being surrounded by flames. The fire still burned, but now he was lying on the ground next to it. He looked at himself, knowing with a despairing certainty that he should be dead, magic or no. But his skin was now unblemished and clean, the runes on his body as clear as the day they had been painted.

 

Merlin lay there, panting, lacking the will to ever move again. He would stay there until he died. He deserved nothing more. Looking at the stars reminded him of lying by the pond with Freya, stargazing together, and he would not allow himself the tiny drop of happiness such a memory might provide. He rolled over to stare at the fire, the symbol of his failure, and waited for death.

 

But death did not come. Sometime during the night, amidst the constant buzz of insects and the creaking of dead trees, he heard the sound of crunching weeds and snapping sticks. He did not take his eyes from the fire, though he lifted his head and listened attentively. The sounds grew louder, and then a white figure emerged from the underbrush on the far side of the fire.

 

 

As she approached the fire, he could see that her dress was grey, but she wore an impossibly white cloak over it. He had no idea how she had gotten through the forest without that cloak turning brown with dirt. When she spoke, her voice reverberated into the very marrow of his bones.

 

“What are you doing out here all alone, Emrys?”

 

Merlin tried to answer, but his mouth was so dry he couldn't make a sound. The woman’s face was hidden by the hood of her cape, but he could see a flash of teeth, and there was a hint of amusement in her voice.

 

“What good is accomplished, sitting here doing nothing, while the world rots around you?”

 

Merlin felt paralyzed, both by exhaustion and dehydration, but also by shame. What was he doing there, snivelling in the dead forest?

 

“You have seen what you are capable of. Your magic is immense, Emrys, a great gift for this land. But you must use it cautiously. The bastet-child is the price you have paid for this lesson: to maintain the balance, everything must have its price.”

 

The woman walked round the fire, grabbed his hands, and pulled him to his feet. Merlin was not sure how he managed to stand, as weak as he was, but when she touched him, he knew that he would do anything she asked of him.

 

“Go to Camelot. Teach the ways of the White Goddess to her people. The Albion of the prophecies will never be born as long as her people nurse violence in their hearts.

 

“Spend your life doing this in atonement. Even in death, the girl’s curse lingers, as does the curse over all of Albion. Teach the people my ways. Teach them peace. Only then can the balance be restored and prosperity return.”

 

The woman still held him by the hands. The longer she touched him, the better he felt. His mouth felt moist again, and he took a breath so that he could speak. But the woman pressed a finger to his lips, and said, “There is one more thing. You must never use magic to kill, Emrys, not even in self-defence. Others might recover from such a taint, but you—you contain power that others could only dream of having. It is a blessing from the Goddess, but great power is easily corrupted. You must not allow your magic to bring death. It is imperative. Remember your friend, and do this for her.”

 

Merlin nodded his understanding. The way she told him had been almost a promise. He had little doubt that there would come a day when he would be tested, and he vowed to himself that he would not be found wanting.

 

After she spoke, the woman backed into the fire and disappeared. At the same moment, the flames went out, only a pile of cinders and ashes remaining. Merlin looked around, but there was no sign that anyone had ever been there.

 

There was a sizzle from where the fire had been. One tiny ember glowed dully amidst the detritus. As Merlin watched, it brightened and coalesced into a single spark that slowly rose and hovered in front of him. It pulsed in time with his heart, a dozen beats, two dozen, and then—

 

The spark plunged straight into his chest, right where he knew his heart to be. Instead of burning, it melted into him and disappeared. A sensation of peace and comfort flared, then diminished till it was no more. Though no one was around, he heard the woman's voice say, “Carry my blessing with you always.”

 

In the eastern sky, a pink light spread, blotting out the stars one by one. A crow cawed behind him, and he spun around. The tree that stood there was little more than a hollowed out stump with a few dried branches sticking out like skeletal arms. It was covered with a flock of crows, each staring at him. It creeped him out, and he left straightaway for the druid camp.

 

When he arrived, it was as if Iseldir could see all that had happened. He greeted Merlin as Emrys and said he'd arrange with his mother for him to go to Camelot. Merlin hardly paid attention. He was exhausted and slept through the next two days. When he finally woke, he might have thought it all a bad dream. But a horrible pain pierced his heart, and he knew it to be true.

 

Hunith was hesitant to send him to the heart of the war against magic. But although she was not a sorceress herself, she had respect for the Goddess and would not gainsay a clear message. So Merlin walked the long, dry road to Camelot. He would teach what he knew, to spread the message of peace and non-violence and proclaim the ways of the Goddess to her people. His deeds would not bring Freya back from death, but he would honour her memory by bringing Albion—the peaceful, prosperous Albion of prophecies—into being. Or he would give his life trying.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on LJ as pelydryn77.
> 
> I spent three years reading Merlin fanfic obsessively, but never knew how to connect with other Merlin fans. I have recently discovered the Merlin chatroom at Chatzy, which has been an amazing experience. Everyone is invited, readers and lurkers included. If you are interested, there is information about this chatroom here: http://merlin-chat.livejournal.com/


End file.
